


Ghosts That we Knew

by literallyjohnwatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:25:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literallyjohnwatson/pseuds/literallyjohnwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man in front of him was an echo of the former years Greg had had spent with him. His face was wan, his bones standing out a little too uncomfortably against the pale skin. Eyes darkened, a bruise blooming under one which Greg knew was the work of John Watson. The only differences between then and now were the grey hairs scattered sparsely throughout the dark mop of curls, and the lack of cocaine pumping through his veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts That we Knew

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this really quickly after seeing some setlock photos (don't worry, there's nothing spoilery in this fic) and had an explosion of unquenchable feelings for Greg Lestrade. Enjoy this angst.

Greg was staring at a ghost.  
  
Not just the image of a dead man, a man who should be six feet under right now, a man that he’d grieved for three abnormally long years, but a ghost of his past.  
  
The man in front of him was an echo of the former years Greg had had spent with him. His face was wan, his bones standing out a little too uncomfortably against the pale skin. Eyes darkened, a bruise blooming under one which Greg knew was the work of John Watson. The only differences between then and now were the grey hairs scattered sparsely throughout the dark mop of curls, and the lack of cocaine pumping through his veins.  
  
His first reaction had been anger. How dare he. How dare he leave behind such deep wounds in his wake. Letting John spiral down into an unreachable pit of despair, eventually taking a few meager reaches out if it, only to be slapped in the face by his reappearance. How dare he let Greg think about the last actions he took before the fall, trying to arrest him. How dare he let Greg blame himself for the death of a great man for three impossible years.  
  
He didn’t even care about his demotion at the Yard.  
  
But the more he stared at the man before him, the more he saw the brilliant young man who had solved his way out of his own arrest, who Greg had dragged to the hospital to bring him back from an overdose, who Greg had found terrified and hysteric and in the middle of withdrawals, who cried and begged at Greg’s feet not to take back to the hospital and to instead please, please stay with him. And Greg had.  
  
He should have been angry then, but he wasn’t. Because back then he didn’t see the eyes of a cocaine addict, he saw the eyes of a lost child.  
  
And that’s what he saw right now.  
  
He saw a man who he mourned more deeply than he ever thought he would, and when he saw how worn down he looked, he felt sad. He felt sad because Sherlock had only done what he thought was right. What would save the only people who had ever cared about him. With that jump he was only replaying Greg for dragging him to the hospital, for staying with him during his horrifying withdrawals, for saving him from himself.  
  
And finally, after this cycling of emotions, he was happy. Because there was a great man standing before him, a great man who had died way before he deserved. And he’d become a good man.  
  
He approached Sherlock without even thinking about it, because this only seemed like the next natural step. He appeared to wince, probably afraid there’d be a repeat of John. But there were no punches, only the tightest, most intimate hug Greg had ever given, and to his surprise, the other man latched on just as tightly, clinging for dear life.  
  
He felt the lump in his throat rise and the tears start to well, and although he didn’t want to let Sherlock know he was openly weeping at his return, he let the wetness streak his face. To his surprise, Sherlock shuddered beneath him and forced out the words, “I’m sorry.”  
  
As his voice cracked and Greg realized Sherlock was crying as well, he no longer cared and shook with a sob, but a happy one.  
  
“Thank you,” he choked, because at the end of the day, Sherlock had saved Lestrade’s life just like Lestrade had saved his, and by the looks of him he’d been through a lot to do it. Those were probably the words he needed to hear the most right now.  
  
If anyone ever said again that Sherlock Holmes was cold, or didn’t know how to feel, or was wired differently, Greg Lestrade was going to look them dead in the face and call bullshit, because this man felt more deeply than any person he’d ever met in his life, and the poor bastard probably hadn’t realized how affected everyone would be by his fall.  
  
After everything he’d been through, after all the grief Sherlock had ever given him, he could say with certainty that he’d never regret picking up Sherlock Holmes out of the gutter, because this was proof that Sherlock had always appreciated it, always treasured the actions that Greg had taken to help Sherlock pick up the pieces of his then broken life.  
  
All of his anger was replaced with gratitude and fondness, and as the man trembled underneath him once more, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get angry at Sherlock Holmes ever again.


End file.
